Oh, What Tangled Webs We Weave...

Good morning, and happy First Day of Spring! It's sunny here on the Three Counties Border, if a little gusty. Gorgeous blue skies, though - the stuff of cornflowers! I've hit the day running, having already baked a fruit cake and prepared a fish pie. I've spent all week sewing and it's been THE BEST time spent for a long while. Here, then, is the next instalment of 'Clive and Min.' Enjoy!

 

Min handed sets of house keys to both her new lodger Connie, and Willow who was starting the decorating project on 1^st August, fitting it in around her outstanding commitments until she could devote herself to the renovations full time. Min herself would be working out her short notice at the housing association office and Connie might not always be home to let Willow in. However, Min felt she could trust them both and was glad to see that they appeared to get on well together.

            ‘I’ll keep the noise down if you let me know when you’re on a night shift,’ said Willow, sensitive to Connie’s erratic work life pattern. Connie had assured her that she slept like a log following her occasional night shifts as a nursing auxiliary which she sometimes took on to supplement her mortuary assistant income, and Willow said, yes but if I do disturb you please let me know, and Connie said she would. 

            Meanwhile, Amazing had arranged for someone from the council to visit Satis House and approve the kitchen to be suitable for food preparation for the general public. Then there was the business of applying for planning permission for change of use, so the house could upgrade its status from private dwelling to business setting. The lady from the council was very helpful. You already have a lodger, she said, so start with B & B. Then as your business plans progress you can apply for different categories accordingly. Min asked outright is this was a ploy for the council to make more cash by demanding more than one set of planning application fees and the council woman had laughed and agreed that yes, this could be a possibility but perhaps Min could look on it as part of an insurance policy against a cautious business plan and it would probably save her money in the long run.

            And because Min did not want her asking awkward question about other parties who might hold an interest in the developing of Satis House into a business i.e the C.O.P.S, she nodded her agreement, filled out the relevant paperwork (glossing over a couple of points and back dating the application to before Clive’s death because who checks dates, eh?) and made the formal application for Satis House to become a business premises. As she signed her name on the proverbial dotted line, Min felt a thump of anticipation and excitement hit her chest. This was it. This was the start of her new life.

Sylvia Path decided to allow the slow progress of the C.O.P.S inheritance to slide for a while. Audley was right – probate could take a while, and it was probably best to allow Minerva Thing to calm down and think rationally about the whole situation. The preferable outcome would be that Miss Thing would find a way to buy out their share – she knew for a fact that the woman had a house of her own she could sell. Satis House would be valued at around £600,000 (she’d checked on Zoopla) and half of that in cold hard cash would be a huge boost to her own career and, of course, the development and expansion of  the C.O.P.S. But if the house had to be sold then the process could stretch out for goodness knows how long. It was a big house to sell, whereas the little terrace owned by Minerva Thing (around £275,000 – Zoopla) would be snapped up by first time buyers. There might even be a bidding war for it which would drive the price up further and the sale would go through quickly because first time buyers had nothing to sell and were very good at completing paperwork quickly because they were afraid their first home would be snatched from their grasp by unscrupulous gazumpers. Oh yes, Sylvia Path had the solution all worked out and all it needed was for Minerva Thing to play the game and…

‘Woah, ‘ang on a minute,’ said Audley, who, unfortunately, had become caught up in the relaying of Sylvia’s flight of fantasy when all he had dropped by to ask was if the Mikado was going ahead or should they scale down for something smaller to get them through the Christmas season without losing their prior booking of the Civic Halls? He raised a steading hand which had the effect of stopping Sylvia in her tracks long enough for him to continue.

 ‘Don’t y’ think you’re getting ahead of y’self with all this…outlandish planning?’ he said.

            ‘I’m merely testing out possibilities and theories,’ said Sylvia. ‘2020 is going to be a thrilling year for the C.O.P.S. I can feel it in my bones.’ And she gave a dramatic shiver which looked remarkably like the one she used when she played Madame Arcati in ‘Blythe Spirit.’ Sylvia continued. ‘Besides, it is my duty as Treasurer to be alert to outcomes.’

            ‘Well, how ‘bout we examine the more pressing reality that August is ‘ere – when most of the company will be taking holidays, I might add – and then it’ll be September and we ‘ave a three day run booked midway through November which gives us barely ten weeks t’rehearse a brand new Nanki Poo. It’s giving me nightmares, Sylvia, I can’t dent it isn’t. I think at the next C.O.P.S meeting I’ll suggest we downscale production and dig up an old favourite we can rehearse and show without bother and ado. Something Christmassy. How about ‘Snow White and Seven Sopranos’ from 1998? Or that exotic one we did in 2005? What was it now?’

            ‘Aladdin – Hitting the High Notes in Old Agraba’?’ said Sylvia. ‘I don’t think so, Aud. Not after the debacle with the monkey.’

            ‘We don’t ‘ave to use a live one this time,’ said Audley. ‘Animatronics is the way to go these days. I think we should put it to vote next meeting.’

            Sylvia sighed. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I’ll add it to the agenda.’

Secretly, she realised Audley had a good point. She had made attempts to find a replacement Nanki Poo pretty much before Clive’s poor dead body had cooled, with no luck. She knew that the rest of the company would side with Audley on the vote, but that was fine. It would allow her to raise her hand against it and show that she was sticking to her principles without fear of her principles winning and putting her in deep doo-do. Yes, although they didn’t know it, the person who was really in charge of the C.O.P.S was her. She smiled inwardly and prepared to revise the agenda and email it to the society.

Clive was up early that fateful June morning. He was oddly excited about going to collect his costume for ‘The Mikado.’ He could barely believe he had been cast in such a major role for his first public performance. Neither, it seemed, could Sylvia Path.

 ‘Clive Thing?’ she said, when Audley had presented her with the cast list. ‘Are you seriously suggesting that a role as complex as Nanki Poo can be competently executed by a person who has, until this point, confined his contributions to the C.O.P.S to painting scenery and being a general gopher?’

 Audley had laughed. ‘Executed! Ha ha! Very good, lass. Never knew you were such a wit.’

The lop-sided look on Sylvia’s face told Audley her ‘executing’ pun had been unintentional. He cleared his throat. ‘Any road, I think we should give the lad a chance. He’s right keen. It’s early days in rehearsals and if ‘e don’t work out, well, then we can always recast. I just ‘ave a feeling, is all…’

 Sylvia hmphed. She was already piqued that her daughter had been cast in the chorus. Now there was a girl with talent. There was a girl who needed to be recognised by the wider world as an extraordinary performer of her time – a Judi Dench, a Julie Andrews – a Glenda Jackson, even. She would have put her own life on hold in order to channel all energy, money and time into making sure her daughter would achieve the universal stardom she deserved, if she’d had the energy, money and time. If. Sylvia sighed. Bringing her daughter up alone, all thoughts of stage school, drama clubs, agents, auditions, splashing her successes all over social media…had been nothing more than a pipe dream but Sylvia was still determined it was not too late for her child to reach the dizzy heights of showbiz success. It was a pity her daughter didn’t share her enthusiasm, but that was often the case with children – they needed what was good for them pointing out with a firm, guiding hand.  

 Clive mentioned the trip into town to Min as she picked up the box of cereal he had left on the counter and slammed it back into the cupboard. Really, he did not know why she was so aggressive about these things. It was only a box of cereal. He could leave worse things lying around, and the thought caused the corners of his mouth to twitch with a smile. And then he sighed. Min was on annual leave from her job. It was going to be a long week.

 ‘Town?’ said Min. ‘Oh, I’ll come with you, then. I’m owed a visit to the library. My card’s got cobwebs. We can walk in for the exercise and share a taxi back.’

 Clive felt a clenching spasm grab his lower jaw. There she goes again, he thought. Telling me what we are going to do. A clear case of B.O.S.S – Bossy Older Sister Syndrome. Still, it wasn’t a long walk into town, and he could always find a distraction in town and give the return taxi ride a miss. Make his own way back as and when he chose. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d leave in about an hour? Just got a couple of things to do first…’

 ‘We’ll leave in ten minutes,’ said Min, over-riding the end of his sentence. ‘I want to be there as soon as the library opens. I don’t want to get stuck behind a load of doddery old pensioners at the counter.’

 Of course, if they had followed Clive’s timetable, he would still be alive. Instead, here he was, sitting on the edge of the pavement with a massive headache, watching what looked remarkably like his own body being pummelled efficiently by two paramedics. Min was standing back and to one side. Staring. Resisting the ministrations of a third paramedic who looked like she was trying to encourage Min away from the carnage and into an ambulance. A couple of police officers were comforting the driver of a large Mini car, a young woman wearing large sunglasses, with dark hair tucked up beneath a beret. He squinted at her. Why do all young women looked the same these days, with their social media prescriptive faces – what was it with the weird eyebrows? And the fake tan. The young women at the C.O.P.S were just the same. Was it herd mentality, that made them want to follow the same fashions and trends all the time. What happened to embracing one’s individuality? Celebrating one’s uniqueness? Ploughing your own furrow in your own way? He could feel his blood pressure rising and then, owwww…his head. Throbbing. To add further confusion to the situation, his father appeared by his side.

 ‘Hello, my boy,’ said Hector Thing, patting his son on the shoulder. He sat with ease on the pavement next to Clive. ‘Happy Death Day! And what a way to go, I might add. Most dramatic.’

 ‘Pa?’ said Clive. ‘But…’

 ‘Hush, Clive,’ said Hector. ‘Best not think too much at the moment. Just enjoy the moment,’ and he nodded towards the chaotic scene in front of them where Clive’s body head now covered by a sheet, was being loaded into the ambulance and bystanders were beginning to peel away, now there was nothing more of excitement to see.

 Clive turned to his father. ‘Pa, I really do not understand what is happening. All I did was drop my tobacco tin into the gutter. I bent over to pick it up and…’

 ‘WHAM!’ finished his father. ‘Yes, I know.’

 ‘A little accident,’ said Clive. ‘That’s all it was. People drop things every day and survive…’

 ‘You’ll be surprised how many people achieve death by accident,’ said Hector. ‘And given the finality of death, you’d think people would be more careful with the precious commodity that is life, wouldn’t you? Sheer clumsiness, Clive, that’s what’s been the master of your fate. But then you always were a bit cack-handed. Just like your mother…’

 ‘I heard that!’ came a voice, Mother’s voice, from a distant void.

 Hector rolled his eyes at his son. ‘Ignore her,’ he said. ‘She likes to think she is still in charge but if you don’t respond she’ll wander off and play canasta.’

 ‘You can play canasta in Heaven?’ said Clive.

 Hector tapped the side of his nose. ‘Who said anything about being in Heaven?’ he said.

A week or so later (time has no place or meaning once you are dead) Clive was in pensive mood as he perched on top of his coffin which had just been loaded into the hearse ready for the funeral. This was not how it was meant to be. He’d spent some time prior to this day attempting to gain access to Satis House but even though the windows were often wide open, he found himself blocked by some kind of repelling force, like the house itself was crossing its arms in determination against his entry.

 And then there was the stupid cat. He’d been present when the cat had jumped into the house through a window the previous day and it enraged him that that the cat was able to go somewhere he, Clive, could not. Hector Thing had joined his son in waiting for the hearse to set off; Clive took the opportunity to complain about the cat.

 ‘Oh well, you know cats,’ said Hector. ‘They have the right to roam wherever they wish. Much as a cat loves a box, you can’t make it stay there. Look at Schrodinger.’

 ‘Schrodinger?’

 Hector nodded, and lit his pipe, safe in the knowledge that smoking could no longer kill him. ‘You know – Schrodinger’s Cat. Quantum superposition. The cat in the box that may be simultaneously alive…AND dead.’

 Clive shook his head which was still suffering with psychosomatic aches from the accident. ‘I’m sorry. What?’

 Hector sighed at his son’s ignorance. ‘The famous thought experiment that challenges the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics…’

 Clive raised his hand. ‘Pa – you’ve lost me there. Are you saying THAT cat,’ and he pointed at the cat that was sitting in front of the hearse, washing its paws, ‘that THAT cat is both dead AND alive?’

 ‘No, no, no,’ sighed Hector. Really, this is what happens when your child shows no interest in science and philosophy at school, preferring instead to daub with paints and fiddle around with pottery. ‘That cat is definitely alive.’ He sighed. ‘Remind me to take you through the basic theories of quantum physics when I have a decade or two to spare.’

 Clive snorted. Like that was ever going to happen.

 Anyway, today was his funeral. He wondered how events would develop. It is, after all, one of the most important celebrations of your entire existence and one over which you had no say in whatsoever, even if you leave precise instructions before you pop off. He wished he’d put specific instructions in his Will when he’d seen Mr Burroughs just before last Christmas. Maybe left provision, at least, for his meagre savings to be used as a tab behind the bar in the pub. He knew for absolute certain that Minerva wouldn’t have splashed out. She never spent her money if she could help it. He wouldn’t call her a skinflint exactly, any more than she would have called him a spendthrift, but they were definitely a distance apart from each other on the fiscal expenditure scale. Look at all that fuss about buying a new television for example. Her mithering about the cost of what he deemed a good set of equipment had, quite frankly, worn him down. He remembered throwing the Argos catalogue into the recycling bin with the words, ‘Fine! If you don’t think I’m worth a 55’’ 4K Ultra HD display resolution smart TV with internet browser, then why bother at all?’ And she’d responded, ‘Not at £1300 I don’t. What’s wrong with the 24’’ HD Ready LCD model at one tenth of the price?’ And there, Clive thought, was the difference between the two of them.

 Cecelia, however, was a different kettle of premium wild salmon. Cecelia, his younger, surprise of a half-sister. Now she never fussed about the cost of things. She knew quality when she saw it. He was glad he’d made the decision to get to know her, after the shock of her appearance at Pa’s funeral. He hadn’t told Min that he’d contacted Cecelia and certainly never mentioned it to Mother. But it was something he DID want to discuss with his father. And now he had the opportunity.

 He shifted position on the coffin that encased his body. The basic model, he noted. Quite uncomfortable. Hector had similar thoughts. He tapped the wooden lid with his pipe. ‘Of course, mine was of better quality,’ he said. ‘Finer furniture, too.’ He poked the handles on the coffin sides and raised his eyebrow at the dull brass plaque on the lid.

 ‘Yes, well – your funeral was memorable for all sorts of reasons, wasn’t it?’ said Clive. Time to seize the moment.

 ‘Now, now,’ said his father, looking mildly uncomfortable, like he was sat on the seam of his trousers or his Y-fronts were too tight. ‘Let’s not discuss that now, eh son? Today is all about you.’

 ‘I think it’s the perfect time to discuss it,’ said Clive. ‘A half-sister, Pa. Min and I have a half- sister and you never thought to mention her?’

 ‘Philanderer!’ shouted the voice of Mother.

 ‘I thought you said she’d lose interest if we didn’t pay her any attention,’ said Clive.

 ‘Ears of a bat,’ sighed Pa. ‘Look, son – I’ll tell you about it later, eh?’ He nodded to the door of the hearse which the driver was opening. ‘We’re about to set off. Let’s enjoy the moment, shall we? You only get one funeral in a lifetime.’